Page 36 of The Sound of Him

I’m not sure how I feel about that…

“Matt, some people go quiet after trauma because they need or want to. It helps them while they’re coping, to just shut that part of themselves down for a while. It can be a wall between them and the world, until they feel ready to be more of a part of itagain. It’s a safety blanket. It’s something they can control, that no one can take from them or decide for them. They know that theycanspeak, if they want to, and choose not to.

“Then there are people whocan’tcontrol when they speak. Some have their ability to speak come and go, which is often something called selective mutism, though there are nuances to that diagnosis that we would need to explore later if we end up going that route. Other people can’t talk at all, in any situation. The mutism is constant. In both of these cases, it’s not that theychoosenot to speak, it’s that theycan’t. There are a few reasons why this happens, some physical, some mental, but the most important distinction is that it isn’t their choice. It has been taken away from them. No matter how badly they want to, no matter how hard they try, theycannotspeak.”

He pauses, just a beat, and I know what’s coming. I know what his question is. I don’t want him to ask it.

He looks at me, looksintome, so sincere and warm and kind, so much intensity in his eyes. It’s then that I start to actuallybelievethat he wants to help me. I believe there aren’t right or wrong answers. I believe that I’m in control.

But everything inside of me, straight down to the air in my lungs, is frozen.

“Matt?”

Please don’t ask.

Please, please, please don’t ask.

“Do youwantto speak?”

It’s such a simple question.

It’s not simple at all.

My body isn’t mine. My voice isn’t. They took it. Maybe even before I knew they had, before I lost the ability to form words, it had already been stolen. Maybe I just hadn’t realized it yet.

Maybe I’ve always been unreal, been other, been something that doesn’t belong. A citizen of a country my parents didn’tcall home. Someone to be left behind on soil soaked in invisible blood.

Maybe my birthright is to be alone, to be disconnected, to be a stranger in my own world.

Maybe I was just fooling myself before, thinking I could ever be real.

Maybe it wasn’t Mica, wasn’t the abuse, wasn’t the traffickers, wasn’t the foster parents, wasn’t the immigration agents who made me a ghost.

Maybe I’ve been a ghost all along.

He has these tools and questions and little laminated cards. He wants to help me. He has so many pretty words, all of these words I’ll never be able to say, words that stack up and up and up until I feel like I’m the one teetering on an edge.

Do Iwantto speak?

What iswant, anyway?

What the fuck does it mean for someone like me towant?

I don’t know if I want to speak. I barely remember the time before. I don’t remember the days when words rolled so easily, don’t remember how I managed it, don’t remember what changed.

Do I want to speak?

I think so.

I think sometimes I’d give anything to say a single word. To say my real name. To just scream the wordnountil the world finally listens.

Do I want to speak?

Of course I do.

I want the words that clog my throat to go away, the words that stick and blur in my brain to make sense. I want to tell people things. I want to tell people so many things.

Do I want to speak?